


i'm like you now

by behindthec



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26724529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindthec/pseuds/behindthec
Summary: She wonders if Eve will get another chicken.A dark interlude, post 3x08.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 20
Kudos: 55





	i'm like you now

**Author's Note:**

> 2020 ghost-wrote this.

I'm afraid of settling down

Into a love that just ain't love at all

So I claim my freedom

([ x ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryju_LpQtkA))

-

_People think that your soul or personality, whatever, leaves the body when you die. I swear, it just goes further in. It falls so far in and just becomes so small that it can't control your body anymore. It's just in there, dying forever._

Maybe not forever.

When Villanelle killed Oksana—or tried to—she grew so small it took a microscope of drugs and alcohol to ever catch a glimpse.

She’s growing, again. Villanelle can feel her inside, expanding, getting ready to claw her way out, whether Villanelle wants her to or not—stirring under the surface, a long-dormant volcano bent on destruction.

_—and never look back._

Never say never.

Maybe it doesn't take a dying breath to close that last window inside you. Maybe it is the cancerous ache of grief that begins to spread through the body, choking you—a vine that grows around you, a winding grip, so slowly that by the time you realize it's killing you, it's too late.

_Help me make it stop._

It’s the only thing Eve’s ever asked of her.

For a second she wonders if this will be her redemption—if it’ll be like the movies, two bodies closing in on one another until they collide.

Their eyes meet, but that’s the whole of it. She could romanticize it, claim some mutual understanding passed telepathically between them, but the decision is conscious.

Eve can’t stay away, so Villanelle must, and she will.

It’s not _real_ love, of course—not that Villanelle could identify it if it bit her on the ass—but it might be the closest she’ll ever get.

She smiles a little, maybe, but Eve doesn’t smile back, only stares at her across the bridge, wind whipping her hair, stupid, like a perfume commercial. Her face is pleading for something, but whatever it is, Villanelle will never be able to give it to her. She’ll only take and take until there’s nothing left but a shell, eat Eve alive and leave a battered mess in her wake, and Eve knows it. That’s why she’s not moving. That’s why she’s stuck to the spot, hoping Villanelle will be strong enough for them both.

_I’m like you now_.

Wasn’t she always? _We all have monsters..._

The wind is bone dry when she turns away, choking her until she’s long past the bridge, all the way back to her hotel.

She doesn’t turn again.

She doesn’t breathe again.

Oxygen must be flowing through her lungs, but it feels hardened, frozen in her chest, a heavy block that will never lift.

She wonders if Eve will get another chicken.

Was the chicken her idea? Nah, too domestic. Had to be Niko. Eve is probably the type of person who couldn’t even keep a pothos alive.

Maybe Eve will get a dog. She'll be all alone in her shitty apartment. People get dogs when they're lonely, don't they? Not cats. Cats are assholes. Dogs are willing slaves.

Maybe Eve will go back to MI6. Recovery through fire. Set herself alight over some new villain, more interesting than Villanelle had been.

After all, despite the superficial romance of their whirlwind adventure, Villanelle has to admit she isn't very interesting. She doesn't have any good hobbies. Her skills are uselessly specific. No annoying family to complain about, no higher education to boast. She doesn't have any favorite movies or books, but rather consumes them indiscriminately, hungrily, none of them quite resonating with any piece of her.

She likes doing that, dividing herself into pieces. Well, _likes_ is a strong word. She does that. She's never quite been able to see herself as whole. As _a_ whole—a whole anything. Fragmented is easier to make sense of, live with, feed and manage—or, when necessary, ignore. How can anyone possibly handle themselves as a complete unit, all at once? All those thoughts and emotions firing off together? She wonders how normal people don’t simply combust.

(Well, some do, but that requires an accelerant. Human bodies take a _tediously_ long time to burn—on the outside, at least.)

Maybe Eve will go on a killing spree just to get Villanelle’s attention. Oh, now she’s just fantasizing.

Maybe Eve will do nothing for months, then hunt down some younger blonde in a club, take her home and try not to trace the shape of regret etched into her nerves.

Or maybe, maybe Eve won’t regret it at all. Maybe she’ll push herself back into a neat, tidy ball of middle-aged predictability, drink too much wine and binge-watch crime shows to chase the memory of the moments she’d felt most alive.

The moments they’d brought each other to life.

The hotel smells of corporate cleanliness, commercial laundry and exotic oils from the in-house spa. In the empty eighteenth floor hallway, her door lock echoes crisply, bidding her admittance to a night-blackened room filled with piles of overpriced clothing that calls her into their folds.

Villanelle breathes them in, runs her fingertips over the nearest piece. Flawless lines and fabrics seduce her into a realm that is familiar, simple, tangible.

_Go to sleep_ , she tells Oksana. _False alarm._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> My old Tumblr is gone; I’m [here](https://just-here-for-the-lesbians.tumblr.com/) now.


End file.
